


The Night We Met

by elospock



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Hanukkah, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Snow, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 02:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17051216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elospock/pseuds/elospock
Summary: What if Oliver came to visit Elio after that frustrating (and slightly different) phone call?This is mostly canon compliant (with the movie), except that Oliver is not engaged or in a relationship yet.





	The Night We Met

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionessvalenti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/gifts).



> Greetings, Yuletide friend! God rest you merry, because this is a little story full of love, and longing; some things are resolved, others are not, Elio gets a little angsty, Oliver possibly gets sick, and overall, winter is a good time for cuddles and long walks in the snow. I hope it will bring you as much joy as it did to me while I was writing it.
> 
> A few notes :
> 
> * In order to keep with the movie’s spirit, I decided to keep some French and Italian in the text. French is my first language, so it came easy, but my Italian is pretty rudimentary, so if you speak it better than I do, please let me know if what I wrote makes sense!
> 
> * In order to keep with the book’s spirit, I kept Elio’s POV.
> 
> * Some parts are mostly a transcript of the movie (the parts I took verbatim from the movie are italicised).
> 
> *I feel it's important for me to mention that in this fic, Elio's birthday was in the fall, so he is 18 at the time of the events taking place in this story.
> 
> * I was listening to Nico’s These Days and Lord Huron’s The Night We Met, while I was writing this, and I couldn’t help but relate the nostalgia, longing and wistfulness of the two songs to Call Me By Your Name, so this is where the title and a little of the feelings in this come from.
> 
> *Happy Yuletide!*

**Part 1.** **I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you**

 

_ December 8, 1983 _

 

I looked into my closet, wondering for the hundredth time what to wear. It was Hanukkah, my mother had said, fare uno sforzo, Elio! (Make an effort, Elio!) I pulled yet another creased shirt from a pile on my bed. No, it was too yellow. All my shirts seemed to be too brightly coloured, too worn out, too small, too big, too light for the occasion. 

Outside, snow was falling softly, covering everything with its delicate shroud of cold indifference. I sighed and went back to bed, pulling the heavy wool covers over my head. Maybe if I stayed there long enough, they would forget about me. Or maybe I would forget about him.

Being back here, in this bed, after all these months away from it, brought too many memories of Oliver. 

He was everywhere; he was in every book lining the walls, every sheet of paper discarded on the desk, every piece of clothing laying astray; he was in the smell of chamomile and lavender and clean sheets, the stains on the sink, the dripping water from the shower, the french doors closed for the season, the twin beds pushed together to form a bigger one; he was in the cracks on the ceiling, the pieces of paint falling off the wall, the door always ajar, the dust on the floor; he was in my body, my mouth, my soul. I knew now, as on the first night back from Rome in what seemed another lifetime ago, that I would never again be able to be in this room without thinking of him, without smelling him, without catching a glimpse of him disappearing on the balcony through the french doors, or to my room through the bathroom.

Suddenly, I pushed back the covers, unable to stand one more second their warmth against my skin. It was reminding me too much of the warmth of his body on mine, the softness of his skin out of the shower under my prying fingers, the hardness of his cock against the small of my back.

Pulling the clothes away from the piles they had formed at the bottom of the closet, I looked, almost desperately, for a box I had left there in late August. I found it under a soft button up shirt patterned with hundreds of faces, outlined like black ink on tracing paper. I put it aside and took the box in my hands. Slowly, I lifted its lid and pulled Billowy out, wrapping myself in it, getting drunk on the lingering smell of Oliver, getting hard on the memory of the shirt over his pliant body. Already, I noticed, the smell was fading; one day, it would not smell of Oliver at all, but only of the memory I have of his scent; and soon, only I will be able to find it on its faded blue fibers. 

I put Billowy back carefully in the box, making sure it was not folded too well so it would not crease and take another shape, one that is not Oliver, one that is not reminiscent of him wearing it on a warm summer night in Rome.

As I put the box back at the bottom of the wardrobe, the black and white shirt that had covered it caught my attention. I smelled it gingerly; there it was, that faint scent, which probably leaked from Oliver to Billowy to the box to this shirt.

I put it on over the thin black turtleneck I was always wearing in winter. All the different faces seemed to be looking at me, whispering to me the words that kept turning in my mind, words I wasn’t sure anymore to be Oliver’s or from one of my dreams. All these tiny faces outlined in black seemed to be looking at me, contemplative and understanding, each a different state of mind, a different moment, a different emotion.

I picked up my walkman and put one of my favourite Chopin tape. I always listened to Chopin in winter; there was something in his Nocturnes and Preludes that resonated so strongly with the fading days and growing nights, with the greying of the sky and earth, with the first snowfalls, their quiet melancholy, their hopeful sadness.

The sun was already going down even though it was barely four in the afternoon. I looked at myself in the mirror, letting my body move to the rhythm of the vertiginous arpeggios and descending chromatic scales, mirroring the dramatic melodic changes with equally dramatic gestures; imagining Oliver’s smile and falsely chastising tone telling me to stop, lest I wanted the maestro to turn in his grave.

I walked down the stairs and the dark corridor leading to the dining room and the smaller living room, in measure with the tempo of the Nocturne in C-Sharp minor, before throwing myself on the sofa closest to the fire. I let the last few notes of the piece dribble slowly and die in my headphones.

I was disturbed in my reverie by the sudden ring of the phone. “ _ I’ll get it, _ ” I said, standing up, barely taking my headphones off to put the receiver to my ear. “ _ Pronto? _ ”

_ “Elio? Are you there?” _

Of course, it was him.

 

**Part 2.** **Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle**

(There are so many fallen leaves to pick up)

 

_ December 23, 1983 _

 

I looked with a smile as my parents and Mafalda prepared for their annual Christmas trip to Napoli to see Mafalda’s family; they kept putting suitcases and travel bags in and out of the small car, bickering about where everything should go, raising their hands to the sky in desperation when they couldn’t agree, running back to the house to grab yet another forgotten item, only to argue again whether it was needed or not, whether it was useful or not, whether there was room for it or not, panicking when they looked at the time, mio Dio, guarda l'ora, non ce la faremo mai prima di notte! (My God, look at the time, we will never make it before nightfall!) Anchise was standing beside me, his hands crossed behind his back, shaking his head once in a while in consternation over the fuss and chaos.

After three rows, four repacking and countless expletives in French, Italian and English, everything was finally packed, everyone was ready to go, and it was almost noon.

Mafalda planted two kisses on my cheeks, admonishing me to eat properly, wash my dishes and fold my clothes if I didn’t want to incur her wrath when she came back. I rolled my eyes, but promised anyway; she knew I wouldn’t do any of it, but it was our private little joke.

My mother embraced me tightly, before cupping my face with one hand. “Elio, mio piccino, sei sicuro che starai bene? Sei sicuro di non voler venire con noi?” (Elio, my little one, are you sure you will be fine? Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?)

I smiled at her, putting my hand over hers. “Mais oui, maman, je suis sûr. Allez, va dans la voiture, vous êtes déjà en retard d’une heure!” (Yes, Mom, I’m sure. Come on, get in the car, you’re already an hour late!)

“Ti voglio bene figlio mio,” she whispered in my ear as she pulled me in her arms once more. “Promettimi che starai attento?” (I love you, my son. Promise me you’ll be careful?)

“Careful of what? The cat?” I snorted. She gave me reproachful look. I took her hands in mine and put them to my mouth, kissing them sweetly. “Mais oui, Maman, c’est promis. Je t’aime Maman.” (Yes, Mom, I promise. I love you Mom.)

She smiled softly at me, brushing a curl out of my face. “Alright. Take care of yourself, mio piccino.”

My father put an arm around her shoulders, gently nudging her towards the car. “Come, Annella, it’s only a few days. We’ll be back before he’s even aware of it! Ciao, Elio! Love you,” said my dad with a smile, embracing me one last time.

“Love you too, Dad.”

They squeezed in the car and waved at us as they made their way towards the gates. I waved back, yelling after them, “Ciao, Papa! Ciao, Maman! Ciao, Mafalda! A presto!”

When they turned the corner and disappeared, I nodded to Anchise and went back inside, throwing myself on one of the couches.

I loved being alone in the house. It so rarely happened; in the summer, it was always filled with friends, uncles, aunts, cousins, professors, editors, students, all coming one after the other, to do one thing or another, play tennis, go for a swim, eat dinner, stay for the night. In the winter, it was much quieter, but the house was always full from the first day of Hanukkah to Tu BiShvat.

Anchise usually stayed in the kitchen near the hearth during the winter, mending his fishnets, working on some furniture or another. He liked when it was only the two of us; there was not useless talking, no bickering, no constant chattering. I liked it too; I could play my music as loud as I wanted, I could improvise the most grotesque pieces, I could play all the pop or disco songs I wanted without anyone batting an eye or asking me what was going on; I could lay in bed all day reading Proust or writing poetry or napping; I could eat whatever I felt like, dine on oranges and chocolate, eat jam straight from the jar; I could get drunk on the good whisky my dad only served on special occasions, drink any bottle of wine from the cellar. It’s not like I couldn’t do all these thing when my parents and Mafalda were around; but they would comment and chastise me for doing it. Now I felt freer than William Wallace winning against England. I was living la dolce vita like it was supposed to; and I relished in it.

 

_ December 24, 1983 _

 

I was woken up very early by voices coming from downstairs. I could make out Anchise’s usual drawl, but the other voice was too low for me to identify it. Yet, there was something incredibly familiar to it that I couldn’t exactly pinpoint. I drifted back to sleep, with dreams of sirens and Odysseus and mysterious men in the night, but woke up with a start, feeling like I was being observed. I looked around and couldn’t help but cry out in surprise; Oliver, of all the people I didn't expect to see there, was standing in the doorway.

“What… Oliver? What are you doing here?”

He scratched his neck, chancing a glance towards me. “Hello to you too, Elio.”

Oh, I had dreamed for months of such a scene. Oliver, in my bedroom, us, alone in the house. I was hard just thinking about it--and hated my body for it. 

“Where’s Anchise?" I asked.

He gestured vaguely, a small smile on his lips. “He went to run some  _ errands _ in town.”

I was speechless. Here was the man I had dreamed of every night for months, the man for whose body my own body ached and longed, the man who barely ever replied to my letters and called even less, the man for whom my soul called day and night, the man who had left without a glance behind, the man of my dreams and nightmares both, the man I loved and hated the most.

I had pictured a thousand ways how our reunion would go; sometimes I was naked, waiting in his bed for him to come up from dinner with my parents; sometimes I was distant and cold, letting him beg for my touch, become reckless for my attention; sometimes I was seductive, greeting him in nothing but a bathing suit, wet from a shower or a swim; sometimes I ignored him; sometimes I jumped into his arms on sight; sometimes I would ask him to sign my copy of his book with a cheeky smile; sometimes I kissed him in front of everyone. But I hadn’t imagined he would surprise me in my bed on a cold December morning, my hair still dishevelled from sleep, my room in disarray, my composure in shambles.

I was angry that yet again, this reunion would be on his terms, not mine. 

I sighed, rubbing my eyes to dispel the lingering sleep. “What are you doing here? My parents are out of town for a few days, you know.”

He nodded. “I know. Anchise told me this morning, when I arrived.”

I looked at him, trying to convey all of the emotions bubbling under my skin in my eyes. “Then  _ why  _ are you here, Oliver?”

He held my gaze, unwavering. He arched one eyebrow, like to say, ‘Are we really playing this game, Elio?’ and I despised him for it, for his Americanness, his arrogance, his presumption.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

My anger was swallowing everything whole. Two could play this game, I thought. Part of me didn’t want to play it, and just wanted to get up to him and hold him close, letting myself be fooled by his softness and the intensity of his gaze. But another part of me was so tired of having my heart broken over and over again by his opportunistic intense emotions melting into aloofness and indifference.

“No,” I replied. “I haven’t got a clue.”

Oliver sighed and took a step in the room. “Come on. You know I’m here because of you, Elio.”

‘I’m here because of you, Elio’ sounded like something I would have made up in a dream, so close to reality and yet so far, so intertwined in my idea of Oliver and the real Oliver that I didn’t know where my perception of him ended and where he began. ‘I’m here because of you’ reminded me of ‘You’ll kill me if you stop’, and how often I had imagined Oliver saying these words, until in a blur of merging dream and reality, I had told Oliver the words for him to repeat, to work around his tongue for the first time, like a wine from a good vintage.

Instead of falling in the trap he was laying for me, I played innocent. “What of me?” I asked, pretending not to understand why he could have possibly travelled thousands of miles to come and see me.

He chuckled mirthlessly, shaking his head. “You’re not going to make it easy, are you?”

He didn’t understand, I knew it; and how could he? While I remained here, trapped forever in the amber he coated my memories with, Oliver went back to a life he knew and enjoyed, forgetting all about summer in northern Italy, and of Monet’s Berm, and of furtive nights in Rome. He left and left for me to be a memory for cold nights and lonely days, promising to keep in touch, but not really intending to. ‘You’ll kill me if you stop’, I had told him, and he would. The Elio he knew would not survive being ignored or taken for granted; he needed Oliver, all of Oliver. I needed Oliver, all of Oliver.

I shrugged. “You didn’t make it easy for me.”

He looked at me piercingly. Dropping his gaze, he walked towards the french doors, like he had done countless times months before. “Is this what this is? Revenge? Are you punishing me?”

Yes, I wanted to scream. Of course, I’m punishing you, Oliver. You can’t go away and walk back into my life when it pleases you; except, yes, you can. And curse my heart and its proclivities, I want you to. I wanted to scream to his beautiful face how much I longed to hear his voice everytime the phone would ring, how I longed to see his writing on a letter in the morning mail. You’ll kill me if you stop, I had dreamed, I had made him say. Yes, Oliver, I’m punishing you, because if not later, when? When you please? ‘When you please’ will kill me. You’ll kill me if you stop because I can’t help but follow your every move, be aware of your smallest mood shifts, go on until I can’t stop myself from falling over and over and over again. Of course, I’m punishing you, Oliver, but I’m not only punishing you, am I?

“No. Yes. No. Not only,” I admitted.

For a while, we remained silent. Snow was falling quite thickly now; we could hardly see past the first few apricot trees. I looked at Oliver, his slender frame braced against the french doors, his eyes closed, his head resting on the cold glass.

“Elio. I missed you. I missed you so much.”

And there it was; the pain, the ache, like a moving tooth you can’t help but play with even though you know it will only worsen and hasten the inevitable. 

“I missed you too, Oliver,” I blurted, unable to stop the words from coming out.

He slowly turned his head towards me. I could never resist his eyes when they were filled with so much want and he knew it. I hated how he knew to play me as well as I could the old piano downstairs. “May I…?” he asked, gesturing towards the bed, saying nothing, saying everything.

No, I told myself. I can’t handle him in my bed, even just sitting in it, even fully dressed. I need distance, I need perspective. I need to remember all the letters he never replied to, all the phone calls he missed, the silence, the indifference; everything but what his body was crying to mine, everything but this slow melting desire building in my stomach, hardening my cock; everything but his face, his eyes, his lips that I wanted to devour; everything but the skin I starved for, everything but Oliver, sweet, treacherous Oliver, squeezing my heart like a tennis ball, drowning my love like an unreliable tide, drying my soul like forgotten peaches under the harsh July sun, slowly rotting away, sticky and bittersweet.

“I need some air,” I decided abruptly. I got out of bed and started dressing up, putting warm clothes on. “Are you coming?”

Oliver walked towards me, concern all over his face. “It’s pretty cold outside, I’m not sure…”

I threw him a measuring look. “Then I’ll go alone.” 

Better alone than dead, I wanted to tell him. Better alone than in bed with you, I wanted to say, though I knew I didn’t believe a word of it. I moved towards my bedroom door, intent on going downstairs and take a walk amidst the hibernating fruit trees.

In two strides he was behind me, slamming the door shut with one arm, bracing it against the wood to stop me from leaving. “Elio, talk to me.”

His body was so close to mine now that I could feel the heat radiating from it, his breath on my neck, his hips brushing mine. I turned, putting my back to the door, my hands fiddling with the doorknob behind me. I didn’t dare look him in the eye. “Months, Oliver. Months without a letter, without a phone call.”

Gently, he lifted my chin with his hand. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. His eyes were shining with sorrow and remorse, and I felt the tears well up in my eyes.

“And when you finally call....” I started, my voice wobbling. I felt a tear fall on my cheek. I shook my head, dislodging his hand from my face. “I can’t do this, Oliver. It’s breaking my heart. It’s breaking me.”

He sighed, resting his forehead on mine. “Elio, please understand…”

I pushed him away and opened the door, the resentment rising in my chest again, encircling my lungs like a tight coil. “Understand what? Was it all in my head, Oliver? Did I imagine it all? The way you looked at me, the feel of your body, your cock inside me…” I walked out of the room, wiping my tears off my face. “Did I make it all up?”

I started to make my way down the corridor towards the stairs. I needed to get out, get away from him for a second; otherwise I might never be able to. He went after me and grabbed me by the arm. “God, Elio,” he spit, anger flashing in his eyes. “I knew you had a flair for the dramatic, but get a grip.”

I lifted an eyebrow and eyed pointedly at his hand on my arm. He let go of me reluctantly, his shoulders sagging. Softly, he implored, “Please, Elio, I am head over heels for you. It’s not logical, and I tried so hard to flush it out of my system, to ignore the feelings I have for you, always pulling me towards you, but I just can’t. I can’t, Elio. I can’t live without you.”

I closed my eyes. He’s going to leave again soon, Elio, I told myself. He’s saying all of this now, but tomorrow he’ll be gone, and you will be more heartbroken than you’ve ever been. Oliver’s going to leave you behind as always, I repeated, like a mantra, trying to convince myself--and mostly failing. I needed time. I needed space. I turned away and went down the stairs quickly. “I’m going out.”

Oliver called after me, “We need to talk, Elio. You can’t avoid it forever.”

I grabbed my coat and a scarf and shouted back, “I’m going out, Oliver. You can come if you want.”

I toed in my boots and slammed the door open. I could hear him going down the stairs behind me, but I didn’t care. The cold wind engulfed me, snow whirling around my head, sticking to my eyelashes. I ran amongst the trees, relishing in the wrath of nature surrounding my own, greeting each other in approval. 

“Elio! Wait” I heard Oliver yell, distantly. But I was too far to see him now. I felt too alive and too free, now, like a bird too long held in captivity. I turned my head towards the pale grey sky and let the cold weather comfort my bleeding heart, shielding it against the pain, numbing it with its soft fingers; and for a minute, I forgot all about Oliver, and the longing, and the joy, and the pain, and the impossibly long days of summer.

 

_ * _

 

_ December 8, 1983 _

 

_ “Elio? Are you there?” _

Of course, it was him. I smiled into the receiver.  _ “Hi!” _

_ “Hey!” _

_ “How are you?” _ I asked. I couldn’t believe it was him. After all these months, here he was.

_ “I’m good! I’m good. How are you? How are your parents?” _

_ “I’m good, they’re fine,”  _ I blurted, speaking over him, not caring really, because he was there, Oliver was calling. I had missed his voice, his warm inflections, the way he said my name like it was lighting up a whole city.

_ “Good,” _ he replied, laughing at my impatience.

“ _ I miss you, _ ” I confessed, more candidly and vulnerable than I wanted to be. But it’s like I couldn’t help myself with him; he always made me so vulnerable, and not always in a bad way.

There was a pause. My heart was racing in my chest; did he miss me too? Will he pretend nothing has happened?  _ “I miss you too. Very much.”  _ I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Before I could say anything, he added,  _ “I have some news.” _

Dread. Cold dread encircled my heart with its hand of steel. People could only mean three things when they called to say they had ‘news’: marriage, a grave illness, the death of someone you knew. The two latter options seemed the less likely. Trying hard to appear casual about it, I drawled,  _ “What news? You’re getting married, I suppose.” _

He snorted. “Not yet, no. My parents are hoping I do. Sooner rather than later. But no.”

I tried to steady my voice and my breath as much as I could. It wouldn’t do to waver and break down right now.  _ “You never said anything.” _

I heard him sigh a bit impatiently on the end of the line.  _ “ _ There used to be someone.  _ It’s been off and on for two years.  _ But it’s currently off. Has been ever since I left for Italy. My parents are just hopeless romantics who want me to settle down with my childhood best friend.”

I closed my eyes, my shoulder sagging in relief. “I see.” But then… “What’s your news? You… You’re not ill, are you?”

“God, no!” he exclaimed. “Nothing so dramatic. My sister is getting married this spring. In Italy, as it turns out, not too far from San Remo.”

_ “But that’s wonderful news!”  _ I enthused, my heart pounding hard in my chest. San Remo was not even a 30-minute drive away from here. Was he saying what I was thinking? Was he coming back? 

He hummed thoughtfully, before saying, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to come, though.”

My breath hitched my throat. “Oh,” I replied, the flicker of hope dying down in my heart. So he wasn’t coming back after all.

_ “Do you mind?” _ he asked. 

Did I mind? After teasing me with the possibility of return and squashing my hopes in the same sentence? Did I mind, that I still cared so much I wanted to cry? Did I mind that he only called to announce my worst nightmare? 

Did I mind?

Before I could reply, my parents took over the line.

_ “Why aren’t you here? When are you coming?” _ my mother exclaimed joyfully.

My father chuckled.  _ “You caught us while in the process of choosing the new you for next summer…” _

_ “And he is a she!” _ my mom interjected.

Oliver’s warm laugh echoed in the receiver.  _ “Well, I have some news for you. _ My sister just got engaged, and the wedding is this spring, in San Remo. I won’t be able to make it, but I told her to stop by on the way there.”

_ “Oh, Oliver that’s wonderful!” _ cheered my mother.  _ “Mazel Tov!”  _ my father congratulated happily.

_ “Darling,” _ she continued. _ “We are going to let you speak with Elio now. Congratulations, again…” _

_ “And Happy Hannukah!” _ added my father, before hanging up.

The silence that followed was almost deafening. _ “They know about us…” _ I whispered when it became unbearable.

_ “I figured,” _ he acquiesced.

I rolled my eyes; leave it to Oliver to drop bombs like this in phone conversations.  _ “How?” _

_ “From the way your father spoke,”  _ he continued. _ “He made me feel like a member of the family - almost like a son-in-law. You’re lucky. My father would have carted me off to a correctional facility. _ Still might. _ ” _

We fell into a companionable silence. I closed my eyes and drew a shaky breath.  _ “Elio, Elio...” _

Oliver inhaled sharply.  _ “Oliver…” _ he whispered, his voice quavering. _ “I remember everything.” _

I couldn’t bear it anymore. I felt the tears spilling out of my eyes, flooding my cheeks, tightening my throat. And so I did the only thing I could.

I hung up.

 

*

_ December 24, 1983 _

 

“Elio, for goodness’s sake,” stuttered Oliver, completely out of breath. “Slow down.”

I leaned on the tree closest to me, looking at the snowflakes gathering in my hands. “Do you hate me, Oliver?”

Panting hard, Oliver looked at me in bewilderment. “Hate you? Why on earth would I hate you?”

I sneered. “I don’t know, Oliver. Because you’ve had me? Because I care so much? Because I’m young? Because I know nothing? You have all the reasons in the world to hate me.”

He faced away from me, shaking his head, still catching his breath. “‘Parce que c’était lui, parce que c’était moi.’ Your father said these words to me, a few days before I left. And he was right. Because it was you, because it was me. Elio,” he began, after a beat, turning his head towards me. “It was real for me too. It still is. Why do you think I came here, on Christmas Eve, in the most Catholic of countries, if not for you? Don’t you see, Elio? It was always you. Parce que c’était toi. From the moment I met you, to the moment I die.”

Oh, how I wanted to believe him. I clenched my jaw, biting my tongue to stop me from replying something I would regret. 

It had stopped snowing; a pale ray of sun illuminated the world around us, as though we were surrounded by the most exquisite crystals. Gusts of wind were pushing the snow off the highest branches, showering us in what felt like a glinting fairy dust.

I inhaled deeply. “It’s so easy for you to say all of this here, amidst the apricot trees, with the sea breeze in your hair, and the sun lighting up your eyes. And then, you’re going to go back to New York, to Columbia, and forget all about me. I will be but a sad dream in the morning, evading your grasp. And you’ll move on, get married, have children,” I concluded, shrugging helplessly, “because that’s what people like you do, Oliver.”

He looked at me. I almost flinched under the intensity of his gaze, but held it nonetheless. “I won’t. I haven’t. Elio. Don’t you understand? I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s driving me crazy, but every night, my body aches for yours, in a way it hasn’t ever ached for anyone before. If we are to speak plainly, Elio, you have to know--surely you must know--that you will kill me if you stop.”

I held my breath. Hearing these words--my words--the words I had dreamed of him saying thrown back at me was my undoing. I bit my lips, crossing my arms in front of my chest, desperately trying to keep my hope, my love, my desire in check.

He approached slowly, the snow crushing under his boots. “I don’t want to look back from the other side of my life and regret leaving you behind. Because I will. I know I will. Leave or regret. Twenty years from now, we could be standing next to this very tree, and have the same conversation, and it would still be true. If I leave you here, today, I will forever run away from my sorrow and my pain, to the ends of the world, get married out of desperation, have children to cope with your absence, like a sore thumb on my hand, like sore lungs in my chest.”

It felt so good, to hear these words coming out of his mouth. And it was so painful, so bittersweet, because I knew, however heartfelt they were, that they meant nothing. “But you have to; leave, that is.”

He smiled wistfully. “Do I?”

I shook my head. “You can’t stay here forever, Oliver. You have a life in New York; studies, students, parents, friends, past and future lovers. I can’t take that away from you.”

The snow had started falling again, very softly, like it didn’t want to disturb us and our conversation.

He rubbed his eyes, his voice hoarse and tired. “What do you want me to say then, Elio?”

I don’t know, I wanted to yell. I don’t know what I want you to say Oliver, because I don’t know what I want. I don’t know how to make it right, I don’t know what will make it right, I don’t know what my heart wants, except that I know it wants you. It wants you, Oliver, so bad, I think it’s going to explode. I wanted to shout, you’ll kill me if you stop, you’ll kill me if you start, you’ll kill me, Oliver.

Instead, I scooped some snow in my hands, making it into a ball, and threw it to his head. He ducked, the snowball only narrowly missing him. He gaped at me, too stunned to reply.

God, but it felt good to stop arguing, to get out of this verbal sparring we had been doing for the past hour. I gathered some more snow and thrust it his way; it got him right on the chest. 

“What are you doing?” he blurted.

I didn’t want to talk anymore, I didn’t want to think, to speak, to cry, to break. All I wanted was to stop feeling, to let my body take over my mind for a while, to let my frustration out, to let go; of him, of myself, of us. Without replying, I made another snowball and aimed for his legs this time. He was still gawking as I started putting a fourth one together.

“Oh, is this how it’s gonna go?” he grinned tentatively, collecting snow in his hands. “This,” he started, but was stopped by one of my snowballs hitting him square on the face.

Sputtering snow, he dashed behind a tree. “Oh, this means war, Elio.”

This was how I liked him, this was how I liked us; just two silly boys doing silly things, forgetting about the world, forgetting about everything but ourselves, right now, right there.

I dodged one of his balls, who flew over my head and hit a tree behind me. I snorted. “Si vis pacem para bellum, Oliver.” If you want peace, prepare for war.

I don’t know how long we ended up playing in the snow, like two school kids. At some point, I noticed my coat was completely wet, and that I had snow everywhere, even under my clothes. I shivered; but I wouldn’t admit defeat yet. Suddenly, he charged me with what appeared to be an enormous snowball and pushed me on the ground with it. I yelped in surprise, drowning in snow, with Oliver’s firm body over mine. I pushed him over and buried his face in the snow in retaliation. He rolled me under him again; I twisted, punched, tickled until he was under me again. Exhilarated, we looked at each other, laughing uncontrollably.

I dropped on his chest, draping myself over his warm body. We stayed there for what felt like hours, the snow slowly falling over our bodies, covering them with its delicate veil.

Oliver wrapped his arms around me, holding me tightly to his chest, his face buried in my hair. “Elio, Elio…I’ve missed you so much,” he murmured, his voice breaking.

I didn’t reply. The words I wanted to tell him were stuck in my throat, choking me into silence.

“What do you want, Elio?” he asked again.

I lifted myself off him. I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest.

He sat up beside me, nudging my shoulder with his hand. “Elio. Talk to me.”

“What is left to say?” I shot. “You have a way with words. You always know which ones will hurt me the most.”

He moved to kneel in front of me. “Don’t you think you are being unfair?” he retorted, irritation clear in his tone.

I huffed. “Unfair? But it’s true, Oliver. From the moment I met you, you danced around me, eluded me, disappeared, left me behind, while I laid in despair, craved the touch you denied me for so long. You played with my heart, and then you left and barely gave word, barely wrote.”

“Do you ever think about how hard it has been for me?” he snapped, anger darkening his eyes, deepening his voice. “From the day I met you to the day I left, and then, having to leave, to leave you behind. Do you ever think about how hard it has been for me to go on?”

I scoffed. “Yes. Of course I have.”

“Really,” he bristled. “Because to me, it feels like you care only about you, about your dramatics. Here I am,  _ here _ , next to you, professing my love in unveiled words and tangible ways, telling you I can’t live without you, and you just shut me out, you brush me off, you push me away. What do you  _ want _ , Elio?”

I looked at him. “Do you really have to ask?” I said derisively. “Really? Isn’t it obvious?”

He rose to his feet. “Cynicism doesn’t suit you well, Elio Perlman.”

I stood up as well, facing him. “I’m not being cynical.”

He sneered, looking me from head to toe. “Could’ve fooled me.”

I felt like he had punched me in the gut. “Fuck you, Oliver,” I spit, turning my back to him, walking back towards the house.

“Fine,” he shouted after me. “I’m gonna go for a walk. I need to clear my head. Later,” he said sardonically. “Don’t wait up.” 

Oh, he knew how to enrage me, that he did. I stepped into the corridor and slammed the door behind me.

 

**Part 3. Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle**

(There are so many fallen leaves to pick up)

 

Oliver had been gone for three hours now. I couldn’t help but pace nervously in front of the window, looking around anxiously for his shape. It was now snowing in earnest; what if he had fallen somewhere? What if he had passed out? What if he was injured and couldn’t move?

Anchise had gone out to survey the orchard, urging me to stay in for now while he went looking. It wouldn’t do if we both got injured, he had said.

That had been an hour ago. What if Anchise was injured too?

It was getting darker and darker, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I quickly put my coat and scarf, still wet from our earlier stint in the snow. That’s when I spotted them; Oliver was limping towards the house, leaning heavily on Anchise. I ran towards them, relief flooding my heart, though short lived; as I approached the two men, it became clear that Oliver was almost passed out on Anchise’s shoulder. His face was so white it looked carved out of marble. I grabbed Oliver from the other side, putting his arm around my shoulder.

“E… Elio?” he stuttered, his teeth clattering.

“It’s okay, Oliver,” I soothed him. “We’re almost at the house.”

His skin felt clammy and cold under my hands. He was breathing raggedly, his movements slow and weak.

“Anchise, aiutami a portarlo di sopra!” (Anchise, help me bring him upstairs!)

Together, we managed to bring him to my room and lay him on my bed. I asked Anchise to bring water, towels and more wool covers. I knew what was coming; I could barely feel Oliver’s pulse or breath. I undressed him quickly; his clothes were so damp they had started to freeze on his body. I started looking for injuries. I started with his head, feeling for gashes, lumps, blood, but as far as I could see, there was nothing wrong. His legs were covered in scrapes and cuts; he must have fallen somewhere. His left ankle was swollen and red; I touched it gingerly, hearing Oliver inhale sharply as I did. I slowly flexed it, but I didn’t think it as broken; probably sprained, though. He had more scrapes on his hands, and a few bruises here and there, but his body seemed, besides the hypothermia, in relatively good condition. Anchise brought the wool covers and I put them all around his body, making sure every inch was covered. I would take care of the rest later.

I cupped his face with my hands. “Oliver. Look at me. Look at me. Don’t fall asleep yet.”

He looked back at me, his eyes unfocused, his eyelids drooping. I shook his head gently, trying to prevent him from slipping into unconsciousness. “Oliver. Look at me. Focus on me.”

His eyes were rolling at the back of his head from time to time, but he didn’t close them. Good, I thought. I reached for his skin under the covers; it was still extremely cold and clammy. The covers were not warming him fast enough. Without hesitation, I stripped completely and went under the covers with him, rubbing his arms, wrapping myself around him, trying to pass on my own body heat to him.

“It’s going to be okay, Oliver. Stay with me.”

“Elio,” he murmured, so low that even as close as I was to him, I barely heard it.

Slowly, after what felt like hours, I felt his body warm up, go from icy to merely cold; he started to shiver lightly, then violently. It was a good sign, and I kept rubbing his body, holding him close, whispering words of encouragement and sweet nothings in his ear, trying to keep him from falling asleep.

After a while, he stopped shivering, his body gradually warming up. Still, I didn’t let go of him.

“Anchise,” I called. The man appeared almost instantly, his usual neutral face lined with concern; he was probably waiting in the corridor, too prudish to stay in the room with both of us naked in bed. “Puoi portare dell'acqua calda con il miele?” (Can you bring some hot water with honey?)

He nodded and left.

I looked back at Oliver; his breathing had evened out. His eyes were closed, but I knew he wasn’t unconscious. His cheeks were slowly coloring to a light pink.

He was going to be okay. It was going to be okay.

“Oliver. It’s going to be okay.”

He nodded slightly, too exhausted to speak. I brushed my fingers to his lips; they felt dry and parched under my touch. His eyelids fluttered and he opened his eyes. I smiled and brought his forehead to mine.

“Andrà tutto bene, Oliver. Andrà tutto bene.” (Everything will be fine, Oliver. Everything will be fine.)

 

*

 

I woke up with a start. It was dark outside, but days were so short now, it didn’t mean it was necessarily late.

I looked at Oliver, who was still sleeping peacefully. His body was warm against mine, and I couldn’t help but feeling myself go hard. Now was not the time for sex and games, I chasisted myself. Carefully, I extracted myself from the bed and put my clothes on again. I touched Oliver’s forehead; it was quite warm, which meant he was probably nursing a low-grade fever. I knew putting covers on someone with fever was usually bad, but so soon after hypothermia, I didn’t dare remove them either.

I went downstairs quietly. The house was so silent; it was unnerving. I looked at the clock in the hallway; it was later than I thought, almost midnight. I snickered; it was almost Christmas.

I entered the kitchen and realised I was famished. I should probably bring some warm broth to Oliver or something. I knew Mafalda had made some kind of soup before leaving; there it was, sitting in the fridge. I put it on the stove and grabbed some bread for myself.

“Good God, times must be dire if you are cooking.”

I turned back; Oliver was wearing one of my sweaters and some old pants of mine, wrapped in a cover.

“You shouldn’t have gone out of bed, Oliver,” I tutted. “You’re still injured and weak.”

He limped awkwardly towards the kitchen counter, looking sheepish. “You left; I was scared you wouldn’t come back.”

I scowled fondly at him. “Idiota, of course I was coming back. I was just making you soup.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow. “Making?”

I shrugged, grinning cheekily. “Well, reheating.”

The clock chimed twelve times. 

I smiled sardonically, stirring the soup. “Well. Merry Christmas, Oliver.”

He barked in laughter, shaking his head. “What a poor Jew you make, Elio.”

“Says the man who came to Italy to see his lover on Christmas Eve,” I countered.

He looked at me, a sad smile on his lips. “Is that what I am, Elio? Your lover?”

I considered this for a minute. “Well. Not only. But yes, I guess,” I conceded.

He nodded. “What else am I then?”

I didn’t answer immediately. What was he? He certainly was not my boyfriend, the very thought made me snort inwardly; boyfriend was too casual for what was between us. Yet, lover seemed too cold as well. 

I was suddenly reminded of Dante, and Rome, and the San Clemente Syndrome.

“ _ Amor, ch'a nullo amato amar perdona. _ That’s what you are, Oliver. Sei il mio amore. You are my love, the love I can’t help but reciprocate.” (Love, which spares none of the loved from loving in return.)

I felt more than I could see Oliver come closer. He put his arms around me, dropping his head to my shoulder to kiss my neck softly.

“Oliver. Oliver. Oliver,” he said softly.

I turned around in his embrace. He was crying, I noticed. I brushed his tears with my thumb. “Elio. Elio. Elio,” I replied.

I kissed him, pouring all the love, the sorrow, the pain I had in it; he kissed me back, answering my love, my sorrow, my pain with his own, until they became one and the same, until they merged completely, until we were not two but one entity, melting away into the night.

“Come back to bed,” he breathed in my mouth.

I turned the stove off, without breaking our embrace. “Let me take you.”

We made our way to my bedroom, his bedroom, pausing every ten seconds to kiss and then kiss some more.

As I was deep inside him, thrusting restlessly, our bodies moving together, impossibly close, building up to a release we both desperately needed but wanted to prolong forever, Oliver wrapped his arm, around my waist and whispered, softly in my ear,” I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked this little story!
> 
> Happy Yuletide & Live Long and Prosper!


End file.
